


The Muse

by Elizabeth



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Camping, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Pining, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:20:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22370929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elizabeth/pseuds/Elizabeth
Summary: A short little story about Geralt and Jaskier on the road.Despite their recent adventures, Jaskier feels abandoned by his muse. So how does our favorite bard break his writer's block? Well, there's one strategy that's worked in the past...
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 17
Kudos: 280





	The Muse

**Author's Note:**

> I am NOT abandoning the Bake Off fic, or leaving the Merlin fandom.  
> This just came out of me over the past couple of hours when I should have been doing other things. Like sleep.
> 
> This is based on Dandelion in the show, the games, and The Last Wish--which is all I've gotten to so far. 
> 
> Priscilla's Ballad is quoted from Witcher III--everything else is my creation with the characters I do not own or profit from, etc. Please do not repost.

“Go to sleep.” Geralt’s voice is more gravelly than usual—a feat, really. He lifts his eyes from the fire and fixes them on Jaskier. “You’re bothering Roach.”

Jaskier turns on his heel and looks to where the horses are tied in a dense thicket. “ _She’s_ fine,” he complains. He paces back toward the fire. “ _She_ has no concern with… like… agh! I can’t even string together a sentence, now.” He throws himself down on a pallet beside Geralt. His lute reflects the small fire, which casts its sleek enamel in a warm hue. He ponders the color. He ponders its strings. He takes it up, sighing, and strums at it.

He sets it down again.

Geralt, still ostensibly meditating, lifts an eyebrow. His throat makes a grumbling noise.

“I can’t help it!” Jaskier stands. He paces around the small campsite. “It makes _no_ sense. We’ve been traveling for months now, and these beasts—that basilisk in Beauclair, the wyvern in… wherever that was. Lyria?”

“Mm.”

“The drowners alone—who would have thought so many lost souls plague the banks of—” Jaskier gasps. “Maybe _there’s_ something.” He strides, determined, to his beloved lute and looks down at it. “The poetry is there. It should be there. Where is the melody? Where are the words?”

“You seem to have plenty.”

“My muse has not been so elusive since my student days.”

“And what did you do then?”

“Oxenfurt is full of diversions, Geralt, as you know.”

“Mm.”

“The Basilisk of Beauclair… That has a ring.” Jaskier rubs the back of his neck. The night is warm, and his collar is more fashionable than practical. He unbuttons his doublet and the collar. “Why’d you have to do away with that nasty bruxa without me? The Bruxa of Beauclair has such superior rhythm. But _no_ , I had to miss it.”

“When has that stopped you before?”

“Excellent point, Geralt. And I have fond memories of Toussaint. Its magnificent hills, its crystal streams. Its noblewomen.” He takes up the lute again and plucks a few chords. “The buxom bruxa of Beauclair,” he begins, “and the brave beast-slayer bold—no. Too alliterative.”

“She wasn’t buxom.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Jaskier sighs, again. “And it doesn’t matter anyway because it’s shite.”

“Well,” Geralt shrugs.

“Don’t.”

“Mm.”

“Geralt this is _terrible_. I have a _reputation_. I _need_ words. _Why_ has my muse left me so cruelly? Where did she go?” He throws himself down again and picks up a stick, which he jabs into the fire. “It is a disaster.”

“Jaskier. We’re nowhere near Novigrad. You have time.”

Jaskier turns to Geralt and watches the shadows play on his skin. “Your beard is growing.”

Geralt runs a hand across his chin. “Mm,” he says.

Three days later, rain falls as the sun sets behind heavy clouds. Geralt places another log on the fire and sparks flit into the twilight as its weight settles. Jaskier turns the spit. “I never eat this well without you, you know.”

“Liar. I’ve seen your banquets. Remember?”

Jaskier smiles. He knows Geralt is watching him. “I never eat this well without you.”

Geralt’s laugh is something like a grunt, but it makes Jaskier’s chest feel full. His friend's laugh always fills him. _Sustenance_ , he thinks.

“What are strawberries compared to fresh venison?” Jaskier asks with a grin.

Geralt smirks. He rifles in his pack for a moment, and then hands Jaskier a small box.

“Oh I thought you’d never,” Jaskier jokes. Then he stops. He forces his mouth to close and licks his lips. “Geralt. Where?”

“That garden outside Vizima.” He holds out a hand, and Jaskier fills it with a ripe, plump strawberry.

“It’s late for them, you know,” Jaskier says. “I’m…” he cannot think how to finish. His words betray him again. He looks at Geralt until his gaze is returned. “Thank you.”

“Mm,” Geralt replies. He leans back beneath their shelter. “Sing me something.” His voice is so quiet, it is almost lost in the rain.

Jaskier chews, savoring the bright, sweet tang. He pulls out his lute, adjust the strings in the humidity, and starts with:

“ _You flee my dream come the morning  
Your scent—berries tart, lilac sweet  
To dream of raven locks entwisted, stormy  
Of violet eyes glistening as you weep—”_

“Not that one, Jaskier.”

“It’s Priscilla’s ballad, I know.”

“No, just. Not that one.”

Jaskier leans back against his pack. His doublet hangs behind him, drying, and his shirt is still damp and clings to his chest. He knows Geralt cannot be comfortable in his armor. It’s fetching, but it looks stiff. “You need to relax. Here’s an old one that may help.

“ _Along the road we’ll follow soon  
But tonight, love, you and I  
Will shun the storms and watch the moon  
And hear the wind’s soft sigh  
Until the darkness fills the room  
And in my arms you’ll lie  
Until the night has filled our room  
And in my arms you’ll lie.”_

Jaskier lets the final note hum on the string and in this throat. He watches the log shift in the fire; the raindrops sizzle as they strike it. When he looks over, Geralt is watching him. His expression is half-hidden in shadow, but his eyes are still bright. His lips are just barely parted; Jaskier can see his teeth.

The road is busy nearer Novigrad. They stop the next night in an orchard. Jaskier is restless, again. “It’s worse now,” he complains. “I _know_ I’ve written great songs. I _know_ I can, so why? Why has she abandoned me?”

“Who?”

“My muse! I told you!”

“But last night—”

“Those are old songs!”

“I like the old songs better.”

“Well you’re… _okay thank you_ , but no! You’re wrong. I have to make… new!”

“Make new?”

“Yes! My admirers, Geralt, expect _more_. Especially when they know I’ve returned from our journey. Stories will be spreading, and I need to be the one telling them.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m your best friend, not them! Especially bloody Valdo Marx—who I _still_ would like to see die of apoplexy—”

“Mm.”

“And if he hears of your… heroics, he won’t dally. And it won’t matter he knows nothing of the truth.”

“Jaskier.”

“It will be piss-poor rhyme and cheap metaphor. Nothing classical, of course.”

“Jaskier.”

“ _He’s_ never been guest lecturer at the Academy in Oxenfurt. You know I—”

“Jaskier!”

“Yes, Geralt?”

“Maybe if you complained less, your muse would return.”

Jaskier tosses down his pack and watches Geralt stoke their small fire. “I’m going to set up a tent tonight,” he tells him. “The mosquitoes here are appalling.”

“It’s the creek. Too stagnant.” Geralt’s eyes move toward the edge of the orchard, where a hedgerow blocks the shallow stream. He leans his head forward a bit. _Witcher senses_ , Jaskier thinks. He must hear nothing because he goes back to the fire.

“Any chance you’ve more magical berries hidden amid your tools of destruction?” Jaskier asks as he unrolls their pallets. A moment later, a pear strikes him in the back of the head. “My gratitude,” he calls, bowing.

Night falls slowly after they eat. The last streaks of dusk are rosy and amber, and the weather, finally, has given them mercy. All the same, Jaskier strips out of his doublet and unbuttons his shirt.

“I thought you were worried about midges.”

Jaskier stretches his shoulders. He unlaces his boots and removes them, then digs his toes into the grass. “This is worth the risk. Come on, Geralt, loosen up yourself. We’re back in civilization. I haven’t heard any ghouls in days, and even the bandits seem to be off enjoying the weather.”

“They’re just hiding out somewhere.”

“Likely, but it’s no matter. Come on. Enjoy yourself. It’s just me.”

Geralt grimaces. And then he shrugs. He removes his swords and pack, and then slides off his armor. He looks at Jaskier’s feet, and then pulls off his belts and boots. Jaskier can see his lean frame through the thin undershirt, and he bites his lip and looks away. _Best ignore that_ , he thinks.

“Anyway,” he continues, “I am just frustrated. Infuriated. At myself. I should have an exercise for just this scenario.”

“Well, do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Have an exercise?”

“Huh?”

“Training, Jaskier. I train. I thought you did… scales or something.”

“Oh. I’ve never had to. It usually just comes to me.”

“So this has never happened before? You’ve not needed recovery?”

“I’m not injured, Geralt.”

“You know what I mean. This is the first?”

“Well, when I started out, after I left Oxenfurt. Sometimes I would... lose track of myself.”

“Mm.”

“But not for years. Years, Geralt. Not since I met you.”

They sit in silence for a moment. Geralt stokes the fire again. The last rays of sun are lost to the horizon.

Later, Jaskier stares at the tent roof. He cradles his arms behind his head as a pillow. Sleep is a lost cause.

“Your thinking is too loud.”

“I can’t help it.”

“What did you do then?”

“When?”

“Before. When you lost your muse.”

“Oh. Well…” Jaskier’s body warms at the thought, almost uncomfortably. “You know.”

“I do not know, or I would not have asked.”

“Well, I’m a poet.”

“Obviously.”

“Poets love three things, Geralt: wine, women, and renown.”

“You would drink yourself to verbosity?”

Jaskier tilts his head back and laughs. His eyes find Geralt’s in the dim light. “No. Not since childhood.”

“You were a strange child.”

“You have no idea.”

“Well…”

“Oh yes. I was probably quite mundane compared to you.” Jaskier rushes past the shuttered look that crosses Geralt’s face. “No, not wine.”

“You contemplate your great fame, then.”

“Ha! No, that has never helped me. I’ve always known I was destined for fame.”

“Unsurprising.” They lie in silence for a moment. Jaskier can hear Geralt’s slow, slow breathing. He thinks it may speed, somewhat, as his lips part. “The other, then. Women.”

Jaskier swallows. “That would be… yes. A release. It seems to help, sometimes.”

“To let go of yourself.”

“I—”

“To get out of your head.”

Jaskier’s own breathing is louder, now. He cannot hear Geralt’s. “Yes,” he says.

“Jaskier.”

“Geralt?”

“You could…” He stops, licks his lips. “There’s no shame, you know, when a woman isn’t here.”

“To what?”

“You were a boy once, you know how to—”

“Oh.” _Oh_ , Jaskier thinks. _That_. For a moment, he thought… He cannot think. His heart pounds. “Oh.”

“If it would help.”

“It… may.”

“You should do it.”

"I'm not going to, just-"

"Just do it and move past this."

"Uh-"

"If it will help."

“O-okay.” Jaskier almost isn’t aware of his own fingers unbuttoning his trousers. “Um.”

“I can leave—”

“No!” He clears his throat. “No, no, no need. Unless you want—”

“No. I’ve… It’s nothing unnatural.”

“Yes,” Jaskier whispers. He slides himself free of his remaining clothes. The firelight still finds them, as low as it has burned. Jaskier can see the way it hugs his pale body. He stretches out and his hand finds himself. He bites his lip, hard. When he looks up, he sees Geralt, purposefully staring up at the tent. And then Geralt, damn him, wets his lips.

Jaskier bites back a moan. It’s inexplicable, yet makes sense. They’ve been through so much, all these years. The firelight also hugs Geralt—bare-chested in the night. Jaskier can hear the slick slide of his hand on his flesh. It’s lewd and coarse, and it stirs him to his core. He quickens, and then he hears Geralt take a breath.

“Geralt,” he whispers.

“Yes?”

“This…” he swallows a moan, “this would be more…” he struggles to not pant. “More, if you would…”

Geralt makes a guttural, feral sound. His hand seems to tear at his laces. “Yeah,” he grunts.

Jaskier hears Geralt spit into his hand, and he has to bite his lip even harder to hold in his approval. His own fist is tight, and he knows exactly how he likes it, but he cannot help but long for something more. He imagines the rough callouses that have to catch and drag along Geralt’s skin. He imagines them on his own skin.

Geralt’s body is riddled with scars, and Jaskier wonders how they taste. He wonders how they would feel beneath his own fingers—also calloused from the lute and the road, but different. And so different than Yen or Triss or… Jaskier closes his eyes. “Geralt…” he whispers, trying to bite it back, but failing.

“Julian…”

It’s too much. Jaskier turns. He sees Geralt, head thrown back, long neck exposed, vulnerable. His hand strokes his body in steady, determined rhythm. Jaskier dips a finger into his mouth, watching, letting his own hand match the tempo. He releases his finger with a percussive pop. The wet glistens on his finger, and Geralt must hear, because he turns, just in time to watch, almost pausing, transfixed, as Jaskier presses his finger into his own heat.

The noise Geralt makes is ferocious. Jaskier hooks his finger as best he can. He strokes himself firmly but a few more times, and then gives himself over to a violent release.

Geralt stares. His chest heaves faster than Jaskier has seen it. “Julian,” he whispers.

Jaskier moans. He lets his body move on its own, and finds Geralt beneath his hands. He grips his cock with one hand and rubs his thigh, his hip, his stomach with the other. “Yes,” he whispers. “Yes, Geralt.”

Geralt’s body shudders. Jaskier can feel his pulse—usually so slow, now almost racing. “Yes,” Geralt says, too. And then he follows Jaskier over the edge.

Sleep comes, swift and sweet, in the warm Redanian night. Jaskier dreams of a cherry lute with inlaid ivory and gold.

He wakes with music on his lips. Geralt, saddling Roach, shakes his head fondly and bites into a pear.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Witcher fic, so I'd love any feedback! Should I write more?  
> It's just a tiny little thing, and I tend to be much more slow-burn, longer stuff.
> 
> Thank you for taking the time to read, and I'd LOVE any comments or kudos you're willing to share.


End file.
